


The Trials of (cat) Fatherhood

by cuppydogcity



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Cats, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, basically they find and raise a cat, fiddleford is a real sweetheart and aspiring dad but my god he has awful taste in food, so theres one or two throwaway lines that hint at him. sorry!, there is hints of a crush but it's pre-relationship so you can ignore it if you want i guess, wanted to add more stan but i wasnt sure how without making it angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:40:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21953080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuppydogcity/pseuds/cuppydogcity
Summary: Fiddleford, walking home from the promotional ‘almost-half-off-but-not-quite hotdog sale’ at the cafeteria, was suddenly interrupted by a tiny squeak from the nearest dumpster.He sneaked over to it, peering ever closer…. Nothing. He should’ve known, it was probably some rats. Maybe a ghost at best.Fiddleford turned to leave again, but was once more interrupted by a tiny squeak.Is that.. A cat?(AU where Fiddleford and Stanford find + raise a little kitten during their time at Backupsmore)
Relationships: Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines, The Author | Original Stanford Pines/Fiddleford H. McGucket
Comments: 11
Kudos: 47





	The Trials of (cat) Fatherhood

**Author's Note:**

> me whenever i get a new special interest: wh… wghat if they adopted a pet….
> 
> also pretend carl sagan’s cosmos on vhs came out in the 70’s-80’s and not 1996
> 
> for the record: they arent dating (yet) and u can read this as platonic if u want.. however b warned i am writing this as though they both have crushes on eachother but r like “oh no he probably doesnt like men :-(“. mutual pining. mewtual pining, if you will
> 
> there wont be anyhting super explicit romantic-wise (cause im bad at writing it) i think but itll be implied hopefully.
> 
> also disclaimer: newborn kitties need to be fed every 2 hours but the time here is stretched slightly to make room for plot. (could you call this plot?)
> 
> it took like 3 hours to write i kind of hoped itd be longer BUT whatever!! :D im happy with how it turned out
> 
> comment/kudoses are really appreciated <3
> 
> my tumblr: https://surskip.tumblr.com/ (a mixture of personal and gravity falls!)

“What did I tell you not to do?”

“Well, you didn’t seem particularly--”

“Fiddleford.”

“...Not to bring home some animal...”

“And what did you do?”

“Brought home an animal…”

~~

“These hotdogs sure are.. Delicious? I reckon they’d be mounds better with some of my home-made extra-molasses ketchup! I should suggest it to the--” Fiddleford, walking home from the promotional ‘almost-half-off-but-not-quite hotdog sale’ at the cafeteria, was suddenly interrupted by a tiny squeak from the nearest dumpster.

He sneaked over to it, peering ever closer…. Nothing. He should’ve known, it was probably some rats. Maybe a ghost at best.  
Fiddleford turned to leave again, but was once more interrupted by a tiny squeak.

Is that.. A cat?

He turned around once more, determined to get to the bottom of this. Stuffing his hotdog in his breast pocket, he picks up some discarded school supplies (what a waste! Really, he should come back and grab them some time.) and shuffles around some of the garbage. 

A-ha!  
There, under some soggy cardboard, was a tiny little Siamese kitten. Hardly three days old, judging by the crusty umbilical cord still hanging on its belly.

“Aww.. Now what are you doing away from yer mother, little guy?” Fiddleford cooes. He’s always been a sucker for tiny adorable baby things.

The kitten simply mews in reply.

“You’re awful cold.. I hope Stanford doesn’t mind another roommate. I mean, he did get madder than a wet hen after the whole ‘Fiddleford this is a raccoon not a dog why did you bring it into the dorm’ incident, but who could say no to that itty bitty li’l face?” He cups the cat in his hands, and almost gives it a loving smooch on the forehead, but thinks better of it when he sees how flea-encrusted the poor sap is.  
Sure, the university technically prohibited pets in all dorms, but it was Backupsmore. He’s pretty sure the people a room over are running an entire pyramid scheme. There isn’t gonna be much pushback.

He takes out his hotdog and quickly finishes it off (Stanford always found his food-stashing gross, but it’s truly convenient!), before placing the little kitten in the now-free pocket. He gives it a little pet on the forehead, almost swooning when he hears the tiny crackles of a purr, and sets off, determined to be the best father a cat ever could have.

~~

“Stanford, are you seriously suggesting we kick this poor baby ragamuffin out onto the curb? He’s just no bigger than a minnow in a fishing pond, Stanford, look at his little face!” Fiddleford pleads, and pushes the kittens face nearer Stanford’s, as if to prove his point.

Stanford seems to relent -- first his face goes a little stiffer, then he seems to succumb to the kitten’s charm.

“I concede, he is rather adorable.” His face melted into a fond smile, before he shakes himself, “Still, we don’t know how to take care of a cat! Last time I had a pet, it was a possum. With a knife. It ran away and then had babies under the pier, and then attacked me when I tried to give my greetings to the new family.”

Fiddleford sat down on the creaky desk chair, holding the kitten near his neck for warmth. “Well, we’ll need to stop off at the bookstore anyway, fer the latest edition of ‘science men weekly’,” Stanford nods along, “Why not see if we can pick up some how-to-care-for-your-dumpster-kitten books while we’re at it?”

“I suppose that’s doable. Can we really afford it, though?” Although he isn’t usually one to be picky, Stanford doesn’t think he can handle another month of ‘molasses and pickle pie’.

“Psh -- I’m sure we can. I picked up some tips from my mom; she could squeeze a quarter so tight the eagle screams.” He waves his hand nonchalantly, before sniffing a few times. “Stanford, do you smell that?”

Judging by his expression, yes.

“I think our dumpster kitten needs a bath. Desperately.”

~~~

Fiddleford had experience with bathing kids -- being the oldest of 8 siblings, as well as the top hog-bather in the county, would do that.

However, it turns out bathing a fussy critter the size of your palm, one that was unable to stop wriggling and was covered in fleas, was much different than well-behaved hogs. Especially when it was too young to even produce its own body heat, and kept screaming a pitiful, high-pitched wail..

“Stanfooord, you’re gonna boil the poor thing with that high a heat!”

“It’s better than it being too cold, isn’t it?”

“Here, let me just--” Fiddleford wrestled his way in front of the sink, fiddling with the faucets until they’re just so.

“Is that better now?” Stanford asked, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

“Much.” Fiddleford looked far too pleased with himself. “Now, time to actually bathe the little gremlin.”

Stanford, under the careful eye of Fiddleford, glooped a helping of Babysoft-Gentlebrand-Dish-and-Hand-Soap onto the kitten.

“That’s about good! Alright, time to -- Hey!!” As soon as Fiddleford moved the little bundle underneath the stream, it decided to protest by biting him. Very gummily, of course, but the attitude was still there.

Stanford chuckled, “I didn’t know they could develop sass at this age. Very interesting.”  
He shuffled in next to Fiddleford, rolling up his sweater-vest’s sleeves. “Let me handle this. I might not have the baby-bathing experience that you do, but I do have something you don’t: Big hands.” He wiggled each of his fingers in quick succession.

Ignoring Fiddleford’s sputtering protests, he grabs the kitten. Surprisingly, it settles down almost instantaneously. He casts a smug smile at the other man. “See? It’s the hands -- they work like a charm.”

Fiddleford merely grumbled, before leaning back, grabbing the comb. “I see you’ve got that under control. I suppose I’m relegated to flea-picking duty?” He shuffled in even closer, one hand steadying Stanford’s, the other starting to run through the kitten’s fur with the comb.

“Holy Tesla.” was the murmured reply of Stanford,upon seeing the amount of fleas coming off the tiny scrap of fur.

“Indeed. Poor little mite, we’re gonna get you all cozy ‘n’ warm.” Fiddleford cooed to the kitten.

They continued to comb, Fiddleford almost gagging a few times at the amount of filth coming off of such a tiny thing. Still, his fond expression never faded.  
After a few minutes, Stanford shifted; It was uncomfortable to have your arms out for so long. “Wow, you’re really into this, huh?” He said, in awe of how tenderly Fiddleford was treating the kitten.

“Yup! I’ve always had a real soft spot for kids. Maybe it’s not too shocking, but I’ve always been fixin’ to be a dad. You know how some kids would dream of their wedding day? That was me, but with what I’d do with my family when I was grown up.” His eyes looked almost distant, and he was smiling peacefully, but he was still determinedly combing away at the cat.

“That’s a lot more altruistic than my childhood dream -- When I was younger, I always thought I’d sail around the world, looting sunken pirate ships for treasure, before retiring into my mansion full of pet space aliens and dinosaurs.”

Fiddleford barks out a laugh, “Oh, bless your heart, that’s adorable! Gosh, you’ll have to show me some of yer baby pictures sometime. I was a total beanpole when I was younger. One time, at orientation, a teacher thought I was in an older class, so she brought me to a classroom three grades up, and I had to stay there for a week before I gathered up the courage to say something!”

They continue laughing and sharing childhood stories until the comb comes out clean, and the water is almost opaque brown.

“Good work, Fiddleford!” He goes in for a high six, and they both wince when they realize how cramped their hands have gotten.

Stanford passes the wet bundle of cat, now just starting to shiver, and he swaddles it expertly in the fluffiest (and cleanest) towel they have.

“There you go!” He smiles, and almost mindlessly tucks the bundle into his shirt, the cat’s head sticking out just above the buttons of his shirt. He beams, looking down at the kitten, then back to Stanford.

“We’re ready for a trip to the bookstore, how ‘bout you?”

“Fiddleford, you know I sleep in my clothes; Of course I’m ready. You might get kicked out -- I don’t think the bookstore is very welcoming to pets. Take my coat to hide him in, all yours are really scratchy and hot.”

“It’s called polyester, Mr. Pines, and it’s all the rage these days.”

~~

“Which do you think seems more reliable; ‘How to care for your cat’, or ‘How to care for your baby cat’?” Stanford was holding up two books, looking thoroughly perplexed.

Fiddleford looked around conspiratorially, before whispering, “You’ve always got yer notepads and such on you, right? Quickly skim through the baby book and write down all the important-sounding details.”

Stanford looked almost alarmed at the idea of crime, but it was soon replaced with a gleam in his eye; the gleam of fatherhood. He nodded, and started thumbing through the pages.

“Sirs, what are you doing?” They both jumped out of their skins at the sound of an employee that seemingly materialized behind them.

“Uhm--” Fiddleford looked over to Stanford, who gestured for him to make up something. “Uhm, we recently came in possession of a baby--” he cleared his throat after his voice cracked, “I recently adopted a child, just a small baby boy, and we were wondering about a name? Would you, kind ma’am, point us to some baby naming books?”

He flashed a desperate thumbs up to Stanford, who returned the favour, before following behind the employee, hemming and hawing at all the names she read out.  
Only when he received the secret signal from his partner in crime did he awkwardly interrupt the employee to thank her for her suggestions, but they really must be going now before the little tyke wakes up, you know how kids are, haha.

They all but bolt out of the shop once they’d paid, and they only stopped to sit on a bench a block or two away, just in case.

Stanford hands out the notepad and pen, and Fiddleford takes it, reading it through. He flips to a new page, to make a shopping list.  
“Hmm.. So we need bottles, formula, litter and the accompanying box… Anything else you can wrack your brain for?” His knee was bouncing with thought.

“Maybe some blankets? I was thinking we could make some home-made robotic toys, ones that act just like real mice! It would be superb for his cognitive development and helping him hone his hunting skills!” Stanford took the notepad from Fiddleford, flipping to a new page, as he sketched out some new ideas.

Fiddleford wrestled it back, “Hey, hold your horses! We haven’t finished writing down the necessities yet.” He scribbled down the ideas quickly, pausing before adding ‘robot mouse (?)’ to the list.

“I think that’s all we need for now. Of course, we will have to research the best cat food brands on the market when he gets old enough, it’s a shame we didn’t major in biology, but--”

Fiddleford interrupts him, “Stanford, hush your mouth.”

Stanford looks confused, and a little bit offended, so Fiddleford gestures to the coat.

“Listen! He’s purring!” He almost squeals.

They spend the next ten minutes cooing over the tiny kitten, taking turns petting it. When they finally remember they need food, they almost trip over each other in their scramble to get going quickly.

~~

Fiddleford debates the merits of extra calcium vs extra protein for far too long, before Stanford hurries him by reminding him they have no idea when the cat last ate. They decide to just mix them together. Couldn’t hurt, right?

Fiddleford blanches at the total, and hands over the cash to the too-tired cashier. Even though he bought only the most awarded supplies, he still didn’t expect it to be that much. He felt kind of sheepish for bragging about his penny-pinching.

“Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit, I suppose we’re gonna have to resort to..” He trails off, grinning despite Stanford’s look of dread, “pickle and molasses pie!”

He cheers as Stanford groans.

~~

“Alright, so, the package says to mix in some water until it’s smooth and there’s no lumps. We’re gunna use the Pedialite thingamajig instead, to get some extra nutrition in this li’l baby. Stanford, can you boil the kettle?” Fiddleford says, not looking up from the label.  
He starts to measure out some powder and water, while Stanford fishes out the kettle from the cabinet.

Stanford, taking a moment to gently pet the cat, turned on the stovetop, and accidentally knocks some flour onto the element while turning around to fill the kettle with water from the sink.

He hardly notices, humming softly to himself, until he hears Fiddleford sniff, and then yelp.

“FIRE!!”

They scramble, trying to grab anything to put out the flames with. Stanford, in a flash of panic, throws the whole kettle at the fire.

It puts out the fire, sure, but..

“Stanford.” His voice is almost unnervingly even.

“Yes, Fiddleford?”

“Maybe I should handle the heating from now on.” He clicks the element to ‘off’, all the while staring at the massive crack in the wall that the now-dented and unusable kettle produced.

“Yes, Fiddleford.” Stanford’s voice was sheepish, and his face was almost as red as the sweater-vest he was wearing. “At least it put out the fire..?”

Fiddleford just sighs.

~~~

“Alright, Fiddleford, have you prepared the nipples?” A pause. “Stop laughing, this is serious.” Stanford says, laughing, himself.

Fiddleford snorts one more time, and nods. He attaches it to the bottle, and hands it to Stanford.  
“I’ll let you handle the feeding, if you’re so inclined. There ain’t any fire involved this time!” He chuckles.  
Stanford nods, his face still a bit red, and they sit down at the dinner “table”. (Really, it’s an ironing board. College is difficult.)

“Alrighty, so, you gotta make sure you’ve the kitten tilted forward; Never, ever, tilt it backwards while it’s drinking, else you’ll choke the poor mite!” He cautions, steering Stanford’s hands with his own, guiding them into place.

“Good!” Stanford smiles slightly at the praise, “Now, squeeze a little out of the bottle; you want him to get some on his lips, make sure he’s able to taste it.”

They continue like this for some time -- Fiddleford directing Stanford, and Stanford following his directions as best he can, if a little stiffly. The last thing he wants is to mess this up.

“Fiddleford!!” He whisper-shouts in awe, “He’s latched!”  
His eyes almost grow misty with fatherly pride. He never understood people’s obsession with their own babies until this moment; maybe he should start to call Shermie more, see how he and his son are doing.

Fiddleford leans in closer, his leg starting to bounce with happiness. “Aww, so he is! We make a mighty fine pair of cat-dads, if I may say so myself.”

Stanford beams at him, and continues to feed the cat, until the bottle is empty.

“Look at him!” Fiddleford is almost crying, too, “He’s full as a tick!”

He gently takes the kitten from Stanford, and tilts it up slightly, holding it close to his neck, on his shoulder. “This is a mighty crucial step; burping him! If we don’t burp him”  
His index finger rhythmically taps and strokes the kitten’s back, until it gives a tiny crackling noise.

“There we are! finer than frog hair split four ways.” He smiles, before wiping the kitten’s face with a tissue. “How often did the book say you had to feed them, Stanford?”

“Every two hours, day and night.”

“Oh, boy.”

~~~

“What do you say about a Carl Sagan marathon to reward ourselves? It is Friday, after all.”

“Truly a man after my own heart.” Stanford replied, before going to the kitchen and readying some of that new microwaveable popcorn.

Fiddleford busied himself with readying the VHS, his ears flushed red.

Once it was all set up, he sat back on his haunches, fluffed the pillows on their bed-turned couch, and quietly chuckled at Stanford’s visible awe at how far technology had come that they could make popcorn in two minutes, in the microwave no less, really, Fiddleford, are you sure you want to miss this?!

They soon settled in, Fiddleford placing the cat on Stanford’s lap and the popcorn on his.  
The series, Carl Sagan’s Cosmos, soon started for the 76th time over.  
Stanford, as per usual, was mouthing the words as they were said, and Fiddleford was yawning, realizing how plumb-tuckered he was.  
Maybe Stanford wouldn’t notice if he took a quick five-minute nap...

He awoke with a jolt several times at Stanford gasping or chuckling at different parts of the commentary. Even though he had seen it hundreds of times over, many of them with Fiddleford, he was still affected by it as if it were his first time. It was honestly sort of endearing.

Fiddleford looked over at the cat. It was snoozing peacefully. It just added to his drowsiness -- he fell asleep again before he knew it.

He awoke again, this time to sunlight streaming down on his face. Oh, goodness gracious, the cat--!

“G’morning, Fiddleford,” said Stanford, looking mighty bedraggled.

“Stanford-- what are you doing up, I’ve never known you to be a morning person.”

Stanford merely gestured to the cat. “You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you. I took the night shift.” He placed his head between his arms, hunched over their desk, before raising it again.  
“I was reading some textbooks to keep me awake, and I saw this one was co-authored by an F. D. C. Willard. Further research led me to discover that that’s the pen name of the real author’s pet cat, Chester.”

He motions for Fiddleford to come over. He points to a picture of a Siamese cat, one that has almost the same markings as their little bundle of joy.  
“I was thinking we could call him Chester, after this pioneer of cat-physics.” He was cut short by a massive yawn.

“That’s the perfect name!” He praised Stanford, earning a smile, before adding, ”Stanford, thank you for doing that. It means an awful lot. But, if I can be honest for a sec, you look worn slap out. I’ll take the day shift -- please, have a snooze for at least a few hours.”

Stanford nodded wearily, before shuffling off to bed, and almost immediately passing out, filling their tiny dorm with well-earned snores.

Fiddleford looked at the sleeping, contented cat, and knew they were in for one hell of a ride.

For now, though, he had a mission.

~~~

When Stanford woke up, several hours later, Fiddleford was placing something on the dinner ironing board.

“Oh! Yer up! Good timing; I just finished a fresh batch of pickles-and-molasses pie! I even added jelly beans, as a thank you treat.” Fiddleford smiles, before guffawing and snorting and Stanford’s horrified expression, only amplified by his bed-head.  
“Just kiddin’! I’d never waste your stash like that. I made you some lentil soup, using veggies ‘n’ everything!”  
He pours Stanford a bowl, and they spend their evening chatting and caring for their new cat.

They could get used to this.


End file.
